


From the First Time

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Canon, M/M, Romance, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-26
Updated: 2004-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-26 18:08:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12064278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: 'The first time you see him, your first thought is that he's the prettiest boy you've seen in a long time.' Second person Brian. Spoilers up to 409.





	From the First Time

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

The first time you see him, your first thought is that he's the prettiest boy you've seen in a long time. Wide blue eyes, full cocksucker lips and an ass like none other. 

This leads to your second thought: He must be a virgin. Without a doubt. No one but a virgin would enter Liberty Avenue at night wearing a plaid shirt and scuffed sneakers. Either that or he'd come from some hick town where all the gay bars were barns and the foreplay to sex was square dancing. 

Your third thought is that you have to have him. Half hard from a shitty blow job, you can already see this kid spread out on your new sheets, pale skin against the dark blue, you can see his back arching, you can hear him crying out as your cock rams into him. In short, your thought is that you want to be this kid's first. At everything.

And by everything you mean everything, don't you? Because the kid (he really is a kid, you fucked a fucking seventeen year old) gets this idiot idea from god knows where that he's in love with you. Certainly you never promoted it. You just fucked the kid and told him to never forget you. But then again, that could have been taken the wrong way, couldn't it? 

The kid is a… you don't even know a word bad enough to describe it. Sufficient to say that you somehow find yourself fucking the kid again. And again. And again. And before you know it, he's a normal fixture in your life, the annoying little bubbly would-be-a-cheerleader-if-he-were-a-girl child that's twelve years your junior. The very thought that he was six when you were eighteen and getting high and fucking every thing male and human seems very wrong, even though you've never regretted having a tight ass in your bed once in your life. 

And it's not enough that he won't leave you alone either. His dad attacks you and kicks you in the ribs, and the kid still manages to be so pitiful-looking that you take him in. That doesn't last long, because then he forgets to set the alarm, you get robbed, and tell him to get the fuck out of your house. You end up driving with three singing queens to New York City, and instead of dragging him to your car when you find him, you end up fucking him and you meet Michael, Ted and Emmett later with the kid clinging to you like a limpet. 

Life goes on and little yellow rays of sunshine get bashed in the head with a baseball bat after you kiss them goodbye and tell them, "Later." Life never goes your way does it? And then, endless nights follow, with anonymous blowjobs and ugly hospital hallways with lighting that makes your skin look sallow. For some reason, you pray to a god that you haven't acknowledged for years, please, please, just let him live. And he does. He ends up in your house again, this time, to stay. You come home to him every night and in the morning, more often than not, he has coffee ready for you. His artwork is all over the place and sometimes you trip over his shoes while you're getting out of bed, but that's a small price to pay for the fact that he's alive.

But he's not happy, and looking back, you don't know how you ever thought that he was. Even though he can pass sporting goods stores now without flinching, and he can draw for fifteen minutes without his hand cramping, he's still a kid with romantic ideals that you won't fulfill. You read the signs weeks before it happens. You stand at a flower stand and know it. You walk away from a night at Babylon and know it. You come home to a candlelit dinner for two and know it. You smell someone else on his body, in his hair and know it. You pull back the blanket for him (for the last time, you think), and you know it. 

He leaves you. But life goes on, even if your loft is now sterilely clean, and for some reason, you're always closing your eyes whenever you fuck someone and see blond hair. You see him at the diner, and stare at him while he busses tables and brings you your coffee. After the third time you leave a twenty under your cup without waiting for change, he asks you, "Why are you doing this?" You raise an eyebrow at him and look pointedly at his short, sickly looking boyfriend, who's just walked in and saying hi to Debbie as if he belongs there. He blushes, and you resist the urge to bump into Ian as you pass him. 

You know, somehow, in your gut, that he'll be back. You know because you know him, and you know that it only took one fuck for him to fall in love with you, and you know that he stayed with you even though you tried to get rid of him, until you gave up trying, and you know that something like that doesn't just end because some dreamy-eyed violinist decides to pour a bunch of bullshit into his ear. And then you hear it from Emmett, who still likes to queen out recreationally with Justin every once in a while. Justin has left his boyfriend, 'the one you like to think has a penis the size of a peanut.' Sometimes Emmett is too insightful for his own fucking good. He insinuates his way back into your life, and you could laugh at his lack of subtlety. But then again, you think, after he kisses you and leaves you in the office, sometimes a mallet isn't as effective as a battering ram. 

You never can resist him for long, especially because it's been so long since you've had your cock inside his ass, so long since you've felt his lips wrapped around your dick, so long since you've started to pull out of him and felt somehow powerful because he would clench his ass and plead with you to stay inside him for another minute. So you take him back. Or maybe he takes you back, you're not quite sure, because it should seem as if you're doing him a favor, but when you're fucking him, it doesn't feel like that. Instead, it feels like he's a king granting a commoner a gift, and when you wake up at home with the sunlight glaring off his hair, you think that it looks like a crown. 

You think that this time, he's here to stay, and it feels like it, because he stays when your loft is as empty as the day you moved in, he stays while he's off saving the world from heterosexuals, he stays when you discover the cancer. And he still says he loves you, even though you'll never say it back. And he still looks at you as if you're as young and beautiful as the night he met you and you thought that he was the prettiest boy you'd seen in a long time. And when you look at him eating cereal at the kitchen counter, and making chicken parmesan, and sketching in your living room, and sleeping in your bed, you think that he'll stay for a while yet.


End file.
